


Through The Mask

by rory_the_dragon



Series: Miles And Miles [9]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Ambiguously Underage, Baby's First Blowjob, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non Fairytale AU, Oral Sex, Peter POV, The Lost Boys Are A Gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is shaking.</p><p>Which is ridiculous. He’s twenty-one, not twelve, and the fact that he’s finally got Henry stretched out beneath him on the crappy couch in his tiny apartment, trading kisses like they’re air, making soft noises into his mouth that make his brain short out, hands curled around Peter’s neck, should not be nearly enough reason to feel like a virgin lying down for his first time all over again. But it is, and he’s shaking.</p><p>(Or: In which orgasms occur and Peter realises how fucked he is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through The Mask

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set in the Miles and Miles universe; An all human, no fairytale universe which still takes place in Storybrooke. The Lost Boys are a gang. Peter and Henry are in an developing relationship. 
> 
> Set before everything in this verse so far. Slight bit of backstory in here. Exciting, no?
> 
> Henry is 17 and Peter is 21.

 

Peter is shaking.

Which is ridiculous. He’s twenty-one, not twelve, and the fact that he’s finally got Henry stretched out beneath him on the crappy couch in his tiny apartment, trading kisses like they’re air, making soft noises into his mouth that make his brain short out, hands curled around Peter’s neck, should not be nearly enough reason to feel like a virgin lying down for his first time all over again. But it is, and he’s shaking, and Henry hasn’t noticed yet, too preoccupied with kissing Peter with everything he has in him, and Peter _doesn’t know where to put his hands._

If it weren’t so terrifying, it’d be funny.

He doesn’t even know how they _got_ to this point. There’s no clear path he can follow from Henry arriving, winter flush high on his cheeks and so eager to push his cold hands into Peter’s skin, laughing… Okay, he’s found the path. Henry being a brat had translated into a scuffle across the kitchen floor, Peter lifting Henry over his shoulder and throwing him onto the couch, following him on, needing to taste Henry’s giggles for himself, all of which had ended up in his current state of mental paralysis.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, where he’s _allowed_ to put his hands or what to do with them. He wants to push them into Henry’s hair, cradle his head, pull him closer, _tilt_. He wants to push up his shirt, traces the lines of his stomach, ribs, chest, bend and _taste_. He wants to hold onto his hips, his shoulders, the curve at the small of his back, _anywhere_ that isn’t clenching uselessly into the couch by Henry’s head.

“Stop thinking,” Henry gets out, pulling back a centimetre or two to hook in a breath, and the utterly fucking _debauched_ sound of his voice kicks Peter’s upstairs brain firmly out of control.

He pushes down with his hips, _feels_ rather than sees Henry arch beneath him, and sets about making up for his previous lack of focus with his tongue, coaxing out small whimpers and moans from Henry that rush straight through his head. Henry’s licking into his mouth like it’s his _job_ , like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing than lying here, legs tangled, chests heaving, with Peter.

This was supposed to stay PG-13. At _most_. Peter doesn’t really know what the rules are when you’re kind-of-maybe dating the sheriff’s underage son, but he’s pretty sure that rutting on the couch is supposed to be a no-go. Instead he’s rocking down into Henry’s thigh, Henry breaking off the kiss to suck in a hissing breath, throw back his head with a whispered ‘ _fuck’_ that sends blood funnelling towards Peter’s hips.

“ _Fuck_ ,” He agrees, and he sounds just as punched-out, amazed and mindblown as he feels. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed as feeling so worked up at so little. They’ve been seeing each other for about a month now, and Peter already knows that Henry’s so much _more_ than anything else.

He didn’t expect this.

Pursuing the Sheriff’s kid was a fun idea. He’d seen little Henry Mills often enough, the amount of time he spends in the cells it was inevitable, always working or reading, as if no one ever told him he was a teenager in the first place.

Not that Peter’s really in a position to judge anyone’s adolescence.

But Peter didn’t even know that the kid could take his head out of his book until he _did_ and he did so to deliver Peter a truly _scathing_ look and tell him to be quiet. It had delighted Peter on levels he’d always known he _had_ , but wasn’t exactly expecting to be pushed on in the Sheriff’s department by the Sheriff’s kid of all people because holy hell had the kid _grown up_.

Peter’d never really noticed Henry Mills before, but after that he started seeing Henry everywhere. Picking up the twins from school, he’d see Henry walking away. Whenever Felix went to see his sisters at Granny’s and Peter tagged along, Henry would be curled up in one of the booths with a mug of hot chocolate, a book. Always reading something. Always alone.

Peter still doesn’t know _what_ it was that he saw in Henry, made him want it, him, for his own. But even so…

He _never_ expected this.

Never expected Henry to be so _much_. He’s bitten off more than he can chew, and it’s fantastic. Henry’s fantastic. Henry’s new and different, and Peter never wants to get bored of him. Can’t imagine being, when Henry makes his hands shake, makes his head stupid, makes his stomach flip.

 _Fuck_ , he’s in too deep and he can’t even find it inside himself to even _care_ when Henry’s hands find Peter’s hair, thread in and pull at him. Peter whines, low in his throat, and licks his way back into Henry’s mouth, nips at his bottom lip and moves to his neck. He remembers just in time that he can’t leave marks there, wouldn’t do to raise Emma’s suspicions, have the Sheriff sniffing around where Henry goes when he says he’s with friends, so he scrapes his teeth across Henry’s collarbone instead.

Henry keens, always so ridiculously sensitive, and Peter really, _really_ , wants to see what this boy looks like coming like a goddamn freight train. Cheeks flushed, mouth working, noisy and needy. Peter suddenly _craves_ it.

When Peter pulls at his shirt, Henry complies, tugging it off and over his head, and the noise he makes when Peter dips and noses at his nipple, pebbling it before he flicks at it with his tongue is incredible, high, and Henry’s hands grab at Peter’s shoulders. Peter laughs, just a little, and Henry’s body shudders at the vibrations it causes.

Peter pulls back, just to yank his own shirt off, throwing it blindly before he’s back, pressing against every new inch of Henry, warm, and when he rolls his hips, feels Henry shiver and bite at his lips, he hitches one of Henry’s legs _up_ around him, pressing them closer. So much closer.

They’ve never gone this far before. There’ve been some heavy make out sessions, hours even, Henry leaving Peter with red lips that made him look all the more delectable, Peter’s hair in a state, and Peter had had to have a long talk with himself about how twenty one years old probably shouldn’t be macking like teenagers on their couches, even though the next time Henry had come round, every argument Peter’d had had fled.

Peter’s lost his shirt before, to Henry’s eager hands, but they’d put the brakes on when Henry’s mom had called to find out where he was.

Henry’s phone is silent now.

Peter’s hand trails down Henry’s chest, dragging and

“Wait, wait,” Henry gets out between kisses, voice strung out, and Peter pulls back immediately. Henry pushes up so they’re both sitting, and his chest is heaving a little. There are red marks at his neck where Peter’s mouth as been.

“Henry?”

“I-“ Henry’s _blushing_. Peter knows Henry blushes at the drop of a hat, but this time his eyes are dropped, his hands nervous. “I’ve never-“

Peter makes an involuntary sound in the back of his throat. “You mean…”

The absolute _crimson_ that Henry turns answers him.

Peter’s throat is dry, but he presses in close and the kiss he pushes into Henry’s mouth is so much more gentle than he’d intended, soft and lingering. His thumb strokes at Henry’s cheek, until Henry starts to respond again, embarrassment fading the more Peter kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him.

 _Fuck_.

Henry’s never-

 _Fuck_.

Just the _idea_ that Peter is the _first_ is equal parts terrifying and the hottest thing Peter’s ever heard. He focuses on the second part. He’s had Henry arching beneath him for the past twenty minutes, swallowed every moan and tasted every whimper. Henry’s hard against him, and Peter’s the first person to-

“Do you want,” He gets out, pulling back, and he’s impressed that the words have some semblance of English to them. “Do you want to stop?”

Peter will. He might have to excuse himself to the bathroom for thirty, embarrassingly quick, seconds, but he’ll stop.

Henry’s lips are pink and wet, and he sucks on the bottom one unconsciously, brow furrowed, and Peter can practically see his mind racing. He presses a kiss to the curve of Henry’s cheekbone. “Henry, relax. If you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

Then Henry turns his head, catches Peter’s mouth, and the kiss he places there is lingering, tugs at something in Peter’s chest. “No,” Henry says, voice quiet enough that Peter can barely hear it. “No, I don’t want to stop. But-“ He says quickly, hand on Peter’s chest. “I’ll let you know if I do.”

Peter nods, smiling. “Sounds reasonable,” He agrees, and leans forward again, ducking his head so he’s kissing _up_ at Henry, pressing him back into the couch cushions, pushing up on his hands to hang over him, let Henry push up and take back, the way he always, _always_ , does with Peter.

Fuck, he’s going to make this so good for Henry.

He charts his way down Henry’s chest, biting at his ribs, nosing at the faint trail of hair that runs from his bellybutton down, dipping beneath his jeans. He mouths at Henry’s hip bones, _sucks_ , because he wants Henry to have bruises, wants Henry to feel him even after he’s gone home, wants to imagine Henry pressing down on them in his bed later tonight, calling Peter to pant and stammer down the phone to him, hand wrapped around his cock. Fuck, he wants Henry in every which way, wants him stripped and open before him, wants to hold him in Peter’s bed and wants him pressed against any wall he can find.

Peter wants everything Henry can give him and Henry’s giving him _this_.

His hands trail down Henry’s sides, coming to rest at the snap of Henry’s jeans, and if it weren’t obvious what he was heading towards before, it is now as he drags his teeth along the skin above Henry’s waistband, looks up to gauge Henry’s reaction and

 _Fuck_.

Henry’s eyes are shut, _fluttering_ , bottom lip caught red beneath his teeth, a pink flush spreading from his neck to his chest, which is rising and falling unsteadily. As soon as he realises that Peter’s stopped moving, he lifts his head, eyes opening and focusing hazily on Peter and Henry’s never looked at anyone like this before. This is all Peter’s.

In this moment, _Henry_ is Peter’s.

Peter’s hands move slowly, because it feels like he needs to be right now, needs this moment to stretch and stretch, eyes locked with Henry’s as he thumbs Henry’s jean buttons open, as Henry’s hips _arch_ so beautifully off the couch so Peter can _drag_ his jeans down, slow, and Henry whimpers at the pull of denim hard over his cock. Peter wants to push back up, taste the sound and swallow it, settles for finally breaking Henry’s gaze to dip his head, nose at the place where Henry’s hard in his boxers, hard for Peter, breathes hotly over the slight damp patch in the material.

Henry keens. So sensitive, every sensation new.

Peter kisses, open mouthed, at the material, before he hooks his fingers in Henry’s waistband, smoothes his thumbs in an arc before he tugs. Henry jerks, full body, as Peter pulls him free, hand wrapping sure around him, warm and heavy in his hand, and Henry’s entire body tenses.

Peter stills, waiting. He presses a kiss to the trembling muscles in Henry’s thigh, a question, says it aloud, “Okay?”

His response is a hiss of air through clenched teeth, a harried nod, and Henry opens tightly shut eyes to stare at Peter, pupils blown. He’s the most gorgeous thing Peter’s ever seen, and Peter’s barely _started_.

Henry’s cock is hard and pink, and the curl of Peter’s hand fits perfectly around it, head jutting out an inch over Peter’s fingers, glistening, and Peter rubs his thumb in the wetness, watches Henry’s hips roll into it.

He strokes Henry, slow, twisting his hand slightly as he reaches the head, because he knows that he likes that, wants to see if Henry does too, wants Henry to talk him through everything he likes, so Peter can replicate it, so even when Henry’s jerking off alone, all he can picture is Peter’s hand where only Henry’s been before.

But that’s not what he wants right now. Right now, he wants to swallow Henry down til he’s shouting, give him the best first time experience he could hope for, _drag_ an orgasm out of him with his tongue. He wants to know what Henry tastes like.

Henry whines when Peter releases him, makes a shocky gasp when Peter draws a wet line up him with his tongue, wrapping lips round the head of Henry and sucking. He pulls off with a wet hot _snap_ , blows cold air out, and gives Henry just enough time to brace himself before he takes half of Henry’s length into his mouth, waits and lets Henry adjust to the new sensations as he shouts out.

The grip he has on Henry’s hips tightens as Henry’s hips _cant_ , jerking up into the warmth of Peter’s mouth, and Peter lets the helpless motions of Henry’s hips gently fuck his mouth until he before he pushes down, holds Henry still. He grins around Henry, pleased, a little bit smug, and flicks his tongue.

Henry’s hands bury in his hair, _tug_ , twist, and Peter moans around him, the barest edge of pain rushing straight to his own cock.

“Talk to me, Henry,” He murmurs, dragging his mouth off to speak, to lap at the head of Henry’s cock.

Henry’s voice cracks. “I… _ah_ …can’t- _Peter!_ “ He breaks off on a truly inhuman noise as Peter pushes back down, loud and babbling, and Henry’s never been quiet, but now he doesn’t even seem to realise the noises he’s making, what they’re doing to Peter.

Peter likes the sound of his name in Henry’s mouth.

He can feel Henry getting close, in the tight muscles jumping in his thigh, the tugging of his fingers in Peter’s hair, the _criminal_ noises that are falling from his mouth with every breath, and he moves his hands to slide beneath Henry’s ass, _pulls_. Henry moves with an aborted cry of Peter’s name, and the sounds like _honey_ to Peter, the warm and heavy weight Henry hitting the back of his throat as he swallows him.

Peter groans around him and Henry

 _Comes_.

With a broken shout hitting the air, his hands in Peter’s hair, Henry Mills comes like a fucking star _exploding_  for Peter, and he’s _gorgeous_. Back arching, cheeks flushes, eyes snapped open and blown to blackness, lips a biteable red. Henry Mills coming is a piece of fucking artwork, and it’s all for Peter.

Peter closes his eyes, laps at Henry as he pulls his mouth up, away, prolonging the shuddering going through Henry’s body, and kisses his way up Henry’s body all over again, licking and biting gently until he’s hanging over him again.

Henry’s hot, wet pants ghost across Peter’s lips, Henry blinking up at him, dazed, and Peter’s smile is soft, softer than it ever is, pleased.

“Okay?” He asks, voice gentle, the way he’s finding he only ever can be with Henry, and he doesn’t want to examine what that means, not now, not when he can still taste Henry on his tongue, wants to give Henry the taste back.

Henry laughs weakly and his hand finds Peter’s hair again, just holding there now, and Peter takes it as invitation to press down, lick into Henry’s mouth and Peter’s jaw aches, but it’s the good kind of ache, the ache he’ll wear tomorrow with the same pride he wears the bruises Henry gives him. Marked up by Henry Mills.

Henry sucks on his tongue, lazy, hums happily, and Peter’s hips buck without him meaning to.

“ _Fuck_ ,” He mutters, pulls back with a small parting kiss to Henry. “Give me a sec.”

Henry pushes up, some of the post orgasm haziness dissipating. Not all of it. He still looks utterly fucked out, and Peter never wants him to look like anything else ever again. “Can I…?” He says, voice hesitant, and his hand reaches out to Peter’s zipper, before he pulls it back, eyes on Peter’s face, waiting, uncertain.

He’s asking _permission_. He’s asking for permission to get Peter off.

 _Fuck_.

“You don’t have to,” Peter tries to say it without his voice shaking, but he’s too turned on, turned about, the sudden flash image of Henry’s hand on him rocketing around his head, to manage it.

Henry smiles, blushing fiercely, but sure. “I really, _really_ , want to.”

Peter’s a bit of an idiot sometimes, especially, he’s coming to realise, when it comes to Henry, but he’s not about to turn Henry down. He defies anyone to look at Henry like this, flushed and fucked out and _eager_ , and say no.

They’re in a strange, half-sitting, half lying position that should really be uncomfortable and awkward, but Peter kind of forgets that when Henry’s hands trip around the snap of his jeans, drag his zipper down, unpractised and Peter bites his lip at how unexpectedly _hot_ that entire thought is as it zings through his mind.

This is going to be so fast that it’d be embarrassing, if Peter still cared.

Henry gets his hand around him, and Peter chokes on his breath, pushes it into Henry’s mouth because he can’t do anything else but slot their mouths together, kiss Henry in a strange mix of sweet and needy as Henry’s hand _moves_. The curl of his hand is a little too loose, too hesitant, right up until the point where Peter moans into his mouth and it _isn’t_ , fingers tightening just enough that Peter has to break the kiss with a snap, pant against the curve of Henry’s cheek.

Henry mimics him, twists his hand as he reaches the head, and Peter’s hips jerk, a too loud noise, closer to a shout than anything else, spilling out of him. He feels lit up, a fire coursing down his skin, prickling his flesh, as Henry strokes at him, strokes, rhythmic until Peter lets himself whine low in Henry’s ear, Henry’s name broken off as he chases an off-angle kiss, and Henry’s hand _jerks_.

The tightness in Peter’s hips _snaps_ and he comes and it’s-

Peter’s fucked nameless, faceless people, fucked girls and boys and anyone in between, pushed and pulled and walked away satisfied, _done_.

With Henry, he just wants more. He’s groaning on Henry’s name and it’s singing in his chest. He’s coming like it’s his first time pushed to the edge, shuddering. He’s fucked Henry Mills on his couch, and it doesn’t feel like he fucked him.

It feels like it mattered.

Henry’s smiling when he kisses him, pleased, but it slips away as Peter holds onto him, _hangs_ on to, because he can’t figure out everything in his chest right now, but he can kiss Henry like he means it, like he needs to. He thinks he needs to. If Henry’s confused, he doesn’t mention it, just kisses back, slow, hand at Peter’s cheek, and they’re a complete mess but neither of them care..

Henry certainly doesn’t, because when they pull apart for air the hand he has at Peter’s cheek falls, slides through the mess on his stomach, and _fuck_ Peter’s brain very definitely shorts out at the sight so Henry Mills licking him off his fingers.

Henry laughs, delighted, and Peter has to kiss him all over again.

But eventually they have to move, sticky, and Henry’s curfew racing towards them, so Peter cleans them up, laughs at the face Henry makes at the drying come on his belly – “Changed your tune now, Mills.” “Shut up, _Pan_.” – and kisses away the exasperation on his face, kisses him until he’s pressed against the front door, shirt on, shoes on, bag on his shoulder, and Peter really doesn’t want him to leave, wants to keep him here so Peter can explore the new sensation fluttering in his chest.

“I do have to go,” Henry laughs in between kisses, but his hands are in Peter’s hair, his feet planted firmly. “Unless you _want_ my mom tracking me down.”

“And how would she do that?”

“You don’t know my mom.”

Peter does, actually, well enough to know that he _really_ needs to let Henry leave. So he kisses him once more, lasting, and once the door closes behind him, he rests his forehead on it, closing his eyes.

“Fuck.”

 


End file.
